Kawaii!

If this course had a textbook, this would be its cover.

At the beginning of every semester, I go through a weird phase where I vow to be friendlier in class. This lasts for about a week, because before long I'm cranky and fixating on the newest injustice the STM has rendered upon me. But McGill can be downright frosty, particularly in winter when the student body begins to sublimate the weather into their own being, so I'm making a particular effort this year, so I take it as my duty to temporarily inject some light.

I've met some good people that way, and probably made a few consider a restraining order. Today I engaged my seat buddy in my Introduction to Japanese Culture class. His name is Charles, and he seems very nice. He also seems very concerned about our midterm in that class.

And, come to think of it, I share that concern. Apparently it involves some kind of research and then, horrors, role playing. If we have to bring costumes, I'll seriously think about seppuku.

The Cake Conspiracy

Ah, those days. When there is no particular tragic incident, but an aggregate of petty annoyances. You can't get mad at any one thing in particular, so you're just sour at life. Today was one of those days. There were cancelled and missed classes, the rag, foul weather, a payment snafu at work, a knee that decided it was 80, and a broken mixing bowl. I figured these were but petty annoyances, and plastered joy on my face, but one person said that I looked sick and another asked if something was wrong because I wasn't "my usual peppy self."

Acting is clearly not an alternative career choice. 

After all of this, I figured I earned one of the Hostess cupcakes Katie gave to me, mystery ingredients be damned. I opened the packaging only to be assaulted by the stench of the grave, because half of the damned thing was moldy. The half I saw in the box? Pristine. The other half? Like something from a j-horror film. What the hell? Aren't Hostess treats, cockroaches and Keith Richards supposed to be the only things left after a nuclear blast? Are all of the truths I clung so faithfully to false? Apparently, so. And all the time, my rational mind was imploring my emotional side not to think of the moldy cupcake as a metaphor for my life, because that is just silly and I have lots of good things going on, which didn't matter anyways because my emotional side is louder and was screaming that "This cupcake represents my liiiiiiiiiiife!" I have calmed down and become more rational, but am off the baked good for a few days at least.

University Bound: The Final Chapter

I am back in Montreal, and have checked one whole day of classes off of my final (final! Where did the time go?) year at McGill. Will I finally learn not repress my emotions and be honest when I am attracted to someone? Will I pass all of my courses? Will I make friends with my professors? I don't know, but at least there are American Cheez-Its to get me through it.

Breaking News?

Artist's Rendering of My Mother

I'm beginning to suspect something about my Mom. I'm beginning to think that she has... powers. I should have known years earlier, when she had an unnatural ability to know when I was hiding books before bed, and where. But that was just a simple case of telepathy. Now, she's managed to collapse a truly righteous amount of stuff including one knitting project, many articles of clothing, a down coat, two pairs of shoes, many books, more DVDs, and a slow cooker, into one suitcase. People, I am left with one conclusion: my Mom can collapse the space-time continuum.
Hmm.
I hope she doesn't go all Dark Phoenix, as that would really destroy my graduation plans.

This One Is For Jenipher

See, I do knit! These are mittens for my Mom's birthday on the 5th.
Pattern: North Star Mittens from Robin Hansen's knit mittens!
Yarn: Rowan Yorkshire Tweed 4 ply, ball bands lost to the sands of time so no idea which colours they are.

I'm decreasing for the top of the second mitten, so even with my notable tendency to procrastinate, I should have these finished in time before I'm needed back in Montreal. I didn't think Second Sock Syndrome applied to mittens, but now I realize it's just displaced. The problem is the thumbs. Sure, they're tiny and inconsequential. But you get all excited to finish the top, and then you have to pick up stitches and knit a little salt and pepper tube. It's disappointing, is all. Damn thumbs.

Stupid Confession of the Day

So, T.A. PAUL- my second favourite T.A. of all time, and thus deserving of the constant capitalization- invited me to his New Year's shindig. I decided not to go. In other words, I am forfeiting the right to see one of my favourite authority figures get drunk and weepily sing along to the Carpenters for Guelph.
I also made the brilliant decision to tell everyone I still knew in Guelph that I always get morose on this date, and am quarantining myself away from the general population to contain the suck. Which of course, makes it perfectly understandable that I am mildly miffed that no one in Guelph has invited me to their New Year's thing.
Which I, of course, would just refuse anyway.
Sometimes I don't make sense, even to myself. And yet, still:

Diving In The Resolution Dumpster

I've been visiting the scrapheap of my broken resolutions over the past few days. I'm trying to decide whether I should do New Year's resolutions this year or just forget it, and say they're a clever ruse to sell exercise machines and Suze Orman books. It's the cyclical nature: I am miserable and unhappy about myself, so I make resolutions aimed to fix them, but then I make them too ambitious, and when I inevitably spend most of the year eating granola bars in front of the computer, I get to feel bad again just in time for December.

So, I won't make the same kind of resolutions. Anything about my weight is right out, for obvious reasons. I always say I want to be more informed about the world, but the world is scarier the more you know about it. Maybe I should swap "watch the National every night" with "watch Entertainment Tonight every second week?" No, that's even more depressing than failure. And don't even get me started on my attempt to green my living. My life is supported by a thin tissue of take-out containers and impulsive shopping, and the thought of deodorant crystals makes me ill. Also, if the end times are right around the corner, I want to go out driving an SUV with one hand and mashing a Big Mac into my gob with the other.

No, I'm not so decadent. Furthermore, I still lack my G2, so driving any vehicle outside of a bicycle is out of the question. I guess it would be easier just to give up resolutions entirely, but I'm still optimistic. And I figure if I set some goals, even if I fail a little, there's a good chance I'll accomplish a bit more than I would otherwise. So, this year, I'm setting just five simple goals. Prepare for limited success, world!

Protagitron's Resolutions for 2009

1. Learn how to cook Indian food
2. Read all of Remembrance of Things Past
3. Graduate
4. Visit New York City
5. Be more frugal

Oh, and then there's Protagitron's One Big Resolution for 2009:

1. Be less of an obsessive, neurotic, depressed weirdo and enjoy life... you delightful dumbass.
   

Obscure File Categories, 1

From the files of "Sexier in Theory Than in Practice":
Shopping for bras. Particularly with a mother who insists on only buying the ones in boxes because the sale is better. I will say that the new bra keeps my girls up, but it also looks like a relic from the Soviet Union and could, quite possibly, stop one of their tanks.

The Tackiest Thing Ever

Please Note:

1. Lavender and teal colour scheme
2. Stills from the movie around the base
3. Arch
4. Quotes on the arch
5. The fact that one of those quotes is "I carried a watermelon!"
6. That there is a button you can press which then plays audio clips of those clips, as well as this monologue: "Look, spaghetti arms. This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine. You gotta hold the frame."

Reader, I purchased it. But only at 50% off, and only to plug the hole in my heart after my nascent tradition of "Buying a Batman ornament after Christmas" was quashed.

Guelph Digest

I thought my blog needed some sex appeal. This is my favourite mug from my Grandfather's "Naughty Mug" collection.

Well, how was everyone's Christmas? I spent mine Chez Grandma, in the town of Ingleside, which is kind of like a suburb of Cornwall, a town whose most notable feature was its paper plant. Which has since closed down. I feel bad about making fun of it, because the people there are quite nice. However, being in a small town when you're stuck with family, and old enough to resent the fact, is no fun. Although Guelph is not Montreal, you can still get out of your house and go somewhere. In Ingleside, there is no "there" there, at least outside of the house after regular business hours. Unless if it's somebody else's house. What I'm driving at is that I spent a lot of time upstairs, reading, this Christmas. I still recorded two bits of Grandmotherly wit and wisdom to carry you guys into the New Year, however:

1. "And they were selling popcorn for thirteen dollars! I just about shit myself!"
-Grandma Protagitron on her encounter with price gouging at a production of Mamma Mia.
2. "And she was using the toilet, so I had to pee in the sink! It was that or piss on the floor."
-Grandma P again, on proper bathroom etiquette when traveling in the state of New York.

What year is it at Grandma's house? Is it 1954, 2004, 1982, 1983, or a year represented on none of these calendars?

I am now back in Guelph, considerably more enlightened. Also, considerably better dressed. Montreal friends, there is a reason to get out of the city. I don't care if you're going to Ontario, or Moose Jaw, or even staying in Quebec and going to some po'dunk town where the locals give you the stink eye. The second hand clothing is going to kick Montreal's ass. I'm not saying that Montreal doesn't have good thrifting, just that you are competing with 1 620 692* other people for the choice items, and they are probably craftier and better at haggling than you are. So, you can either be lucky, fork over some serious coin, or content yourself with the best the early 90s has to offer in burgundy corduroy.

Guelph Haul

I am never lucky, so I am Guelphy. In today's haul: Vintage herringbone jacket, made in Edinburgh sometime in the sixties, judging from the label. Diane Von Furstenberg scarf, which I paid more for than I usually pay for secondhand goods, but 14$ for DVF is a sacrifice I'm willing to make. And, from Value Village, the Bluest Coat in the World. It is so blue it is post-post-blue. It deserves its own biohazard sticker. The legally blind might be able to make out light, dark, and this coat. I love it, and plan to be buried in it.

There is another good reason to go to Guelph: All Strung Out. Mote has her own (awesome) yarn store. I wasn't around when it opened, but I had to come down and drop a few dollars. Not as much as I would have liked, but I am under severe financial and space considerations. Also, my stash is in danger of smothering the cat, which would just push me over the edge from righteous to sad spinster. So, I limited myself to just some Diamond sock yarn, which is a gift for a friend anyway, and some Noro Kureyon Sock, which is for a secret project. But here's why you shouldn't do the same:

1. Supporting local businesses is awesome.
2. Mote is a lovely person.
3. Who doesn't love yarn?

I can't think of a better three reasons. And for those smartasses who are wondering if I even knit anymore, some day there will be pictures. Or maybe line drawings. Whatever.

Winter in balmy Guelph. Slushtastic!